


Left Alone

by Dark_and_night



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21762355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_and_night/pseuds/Dark_and_night
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	Left Alone

Everything was broken. Everything was broken and nothing would ever be the same as it had been as it had been before it broke. It was broken and ruined and he had no idea why.  


Anything that was breakable was now just shards of trash on the floor. Many of the books had been ripped apart, and even his precious records were shattered as well. Brahms knew why all of that had been broken. He was the one who had broken them.  


What he didn’t understand was what had happened to make this happen.  


He didn’t know if it was his fault that you left.  


You hadn’t even left him a note.  


The night before, you had smiled at Brahms, with that perfect smile of yours, and had suggested that Brahms try some wine. He had never drunk before, and he was only a few glasses in when the alcohol had made him sleepy. You had gently led him to bed, tucking him in and giving him a goodnight kiss. And when he woke up, you and all of your things were gone.  


Brahms had walked through the house looking for you, calling out your name tentatively. The reality of the situation not dawning on him. He was confused why your things were gone, and he checked all of your usual lounging places, but you weren’t there.  
He started suspecting something fairly quickly, but he couldn’t let himself believe it. It wasn’t until he saw your car was gone that the reality of the situation had finally dawned on him.  


That was when Brahms started breaking things. He broke things until his hands were bloody and his feet were shredded, bits of broken things lodged in the soles of his feet. Brahms screamed until his voice was hoarse, and when there was nothing left to break he stood in the middle of the living room, blood dripping from his hands as he looked out at his destroyed house.  


His throat hurt. His feet throbbed, but he felt no pain, not even when he walked across the broken glass and porcelain that littered the floor. Only then, did he finally feel pinpricks behind his eyes.  


“But I was good.” He whispered.  


Finally, he started crying, the rage being replaced with sadness. Just sadness. Betrayal. Loneliness.  


Brahms wanted to hide. He wanted to hide. He pressed his hand against one of the secret passages into the wall, but even the space behind the wall seemed too large. Tears blurring his vision, Brahms got on his knees, crawling into a cabinet and curling into himself.  


“But I was good.” He sobbed, the voice of a child escaping him. “I was good, I did everything you wanted!” Brahms sobbed, the tears running behind his mask as he rocked back and forth. He clenched his hands so hard his knuckles popped, fresh blood being pushed from the wounds on his hands as he dug his nails into his palms. His feet continued to bleed, and as he sobbed, blood pooled in his small space and leaked out of the cabinet doors.  


“I was as good as I know how to be!” Brahms’ shoulders shook with sobs, as he begged the universe for an answer that wouldn’t come.  


If someone had passed by they would have heard a child crying in his secret hiding space. But there was no one left who knew that Brahms existed.  


Brahms cried until the sun lowered in the sky, when the same red that stained the floor now painted the sky, Brahms finally left the cabinet, his eyes burning from the tears. He looked out at the decimated remains of his home.  


I’ll have to clean that up later. He thought numbly as he shuffled his way to his bedroom. Not the one the two of you shared, no, seeing that bed would break his heart all over again.  


Brahms slunk to his old room in the wall, his blood creating a gory trail behind him as he walked. His feet and hands hurt, but he didn’t care.  


When he finally made it to his familiar room he collapsed on his cot, months of dust flying off of it as he fell.  


Everything was broken.  


And god, Brahms didn’t know why.


End file.
